Maybe
by Atiaran
Summary: George R. R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire. Sandor's thoughts after Arya abandons him. Post-SOS. Contemplative. Should probably read Nothing Left first for background.


**Standard disclaimer:**  None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine but are the property of George R. R. Martin.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Author's note:**  Originally I had planned to do three Martin fics involving the character of the Hound, as I explained in the author's note for "Nothing Left," but this little ficlet popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone.  I wrote this because I wondered what happened to Sandor after Arya abandoned him.  I think in this fic that I was probably kinder to Sandor than Martin's going to be, in that he achieves a measure of inner peace at last.  Although I'm guessing Martin's going to let him live, GRRM's love of torturing his characters makes me think that any inner peace for the Hound is still quite a ways off and may not be achieved until the last book, if at all.  Anyway, this is my last Hound fic, since anything else I could write (and I have a few ideas) will be superseded when the next book comes out.   

This story picks up right where "Nothing Left" leaves off, right to the sentence.  If you haven't read that story, I strongly suggest you do so before you read this one.  "Tally Sticks" might also be helpful too, although they're not strictly continuous with each other, just to give you some background on my take on the Hound's character.  

And death did not come.

He lay there a day, a night and another day, tormented by dreams and fever and pain.  The water in his helm, muddy and full of grit, provided the only relief from thirst.  At times his throat was so raw that it felt like he was swallowing over broken glass.  It hurt to move even enough to drink.  Sometimes he would remember with a start that he might have been pursued, and at such times he would grow fearful, listening desperately for any sound, but at other times he was so lost in delirium that he scarce knew where he was.  He alternately sweated and shivered.  The bandages over his ear grew stiff with blood.

But he lived.

Finally, as the slight warmth of the second day slid into the chill of evening, he awoke with a start from vague, confusing nightmares.  He could not remember what he had been dreaming about, only that the dreams had been very bad.  He was sweating again, but he was not too warm.  His head was clear.  He felt better, but very weak; just the effort of trying to sit up exhausted him.  He closed his eyes a moment and slipped back into sleep again.

The second time he woke, he was stronger, a little.  He felt roughly eight hundred years old, but at least he could move.  He sat up, drank the remains of the water beside him.  The mud had mostly settled out.  He leaned back against the tree and rested quietly, looking up at the sky deepening to dusk above him, not thinking of anything.

After a time, he tried standing, holding onto the tree for help.  The very first thing he did, once he was up, was to take that stupid dogs-head helm and with the slow, faltering steps of an invalid, carry it down to the river bank.  He paused a moment, watching the dark brown water flow endlessly past, then something like a snarl twitched across his face.  The helm splashed when he threw it out into the current.  He hadn't been able to throw it very far, but it went far enough; it filled instantly and sank to the bottom.

The next thing he did was to look for his horse.  For a wonder, Stranger had not strayed far; he found him a little ways further down the river bank, drinking in a clump of reeds. He gripped Stranger's halter with a shaky hand, hanging onto the horse as much for balance as anything, and led him back up the bank and through the undergrowth to the tree; the horse came readily enough.  He slowly and clumsily hobbled Stranger, and half-sat, half-fell back down against the tree again.

The sky had deepened almost all the way to black, and the stars sparkled like chips of diamond.  Crickets chirped in the night air, and the wind blew softly through the branches of the tree above him; the leaves swayed across the white crescent of the moon.  Sandor watched the stars and listened to the wind and the crickets, and wondered idly what to do next.  There was suicide, but somehow it seemed like a waste; if he had been going to die, he should have done it while he lay sick, not now.  And besides….a half-buried memory rose in his mind.  _You don't deserve the gift of mercy._  She had condemned him to live, and he would not argue with her judgement.  He wondered where she was tonight, her and the little bird both.  Maybe the two of them had found each other and were together somewhere, they'd like that. 

_You could go to the Wall._  He dismissed that thought almost as soon as it entered his head; all the reasons he had told the she-wolf as to why not still held.   Too far away, too hard to get there, too dangerous.  _Have you lost your belly for fighting?_  Strangely, the question didn't sting as it had before.  He had run; he had revealed himself as craven.  It was true.  Wishing wouldn't make it otherwise.  

_Now everybody knows._  That hurt more, though.  He pushed the thought out of his head, because it hurt him and also because it led to…to things he didn't want to think about, not then.  _She got away.  Think about that instead.  She got away, and left the Imp behind to be executed._

But if not the Wall, then where?  He couldn't go back to the Lannisters and wouldn't if he could; the Young Wolf was dead, he had no she-wolf to sell.  He wasn't smart enough to be a maester, or pious enough to be a septon, and who'd want him as a sellsword, after he had run at King's Landing?  Besides, he'd had enough of whoring his blade for coin; he wouldn't do that again.  He had no lands, he had no gold.  _And anywhere I go, they'll know me._  His mouth twitched.  What did he have left?

_The song.  She sang for me._

_No she didn't._  The thought did not bring the desperate agony of before; this time, there was only a deep sadness, like the ache of a long-healed wound.  _I made her sing for me.  The song was a lie._  She had sung for him….

….and touched his face after.

He frowned slightly, unaware of it.  She had, she had touched his face. How had he forgotten?  _Why did she do that?_ She had touched his face, and felt his tears….

He leaned back against the tree, fixing his eyes on the gleaming silver moon.  The wind brushed his unburned cheek, just like her fingers had.  The Trident flowed smoothly between its banks, rippling quietly to itself.  _Where are you tonight, little bird?_ he wondered.  _Are you looking up at the moon too?  What are you thinking of right now?_

He had done her wrong, he acknowledged to himself.  He had failed to protect her from Joffrey, he had abandoned her to the Imp, and he had taken her song.  For the last, he could only offer the excuse of drunkenness, and he could see that that was no excuse at all; for the first two, it was cowardice, pure and simple.  Again, he could see this without the almost frantic pain that had come before; instead the thoughts simply felt heavy.  They weighed on his mind, like stones or chains, the way the cloak of the Kingsguard had dragged at his shoulders.  He had done her wrong….

_Maybe you could try to make it right._

_Make it _right? He thought with a sardonic shrug.  _It's a little too late to start doing things right now—_

_No it isn't.  Find her._

He frowned again slightly.  _How?_

They said she had turned into a winged wolf and flown away.  _Could that be true?_  If she had killed Joffrey with a spell, then what else could she do?  What else that he didn't know about?  _If she can do that, then what could I do for her?_

If she had done that, then maybe he wouldn't be able to find her again.  She could be anywhere from Braavos and the Free Cities across the sea, to the Wall, or Asshai, or….anywhere.  And even if he did find her again….   _I took her song.  I let them beat her.  I left her behind for the Imp._  He had no reason to expect that she would even want to see him again.

The night was growing cooler; he shivered a little, and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.  _She touched your face, though, dog, remember that._  She had.  It wasn't much, but maybe it was something.  _Maybe_.

_Dog._  He thought about that, turning it over in his mind as the branches swayed gently above him and the Trident murmured softly to itself behind the thin stand of trees.  It made him tired, trying to remember how he had come to be a dog to start with.  _I don't want to be a dog anymore,_ he realized.  He'd had enough of being a dog.  After all, what had it gotten him?  _The white cloak, that's what_, he thought, and his mouth twisted sourly.  

Maybe he should try being a man for a change.  If it wasn't already too late.  _Seven hells, if she doesn't want you she can bloody well tell you when you find her, if you find her.  Haven't you been craven long enough?_

He leaned his head back against the tree behind him, dizzy.  A night bird hooted off in the distance somewhere.  He could feel the strength draining from his limbs; he was still weak, he realized.  Tired.  _Enough._  He eased himself down, mindful of his still-painful wounds.  The ground was cool under him, and hard, but he didn't care.  _Need to sleep.  There'll be time enough to decide on the morrow._  

He closed his eyes, content to simply drift for a while.  He had lost his past, and he could not see the future.  It seemed to him at the moment that he had nothing at all.  The thought came without pain, it was simply a recognition of what was. 

But as he sank down into the gray cloud of sleep, he half-dreamed that he heard the echo of a distant song, felt the brush of phantom fingers against the good side of his face.  Maybe not nothing, after all.  _Little bird,_ he thought drowsily, and slept. 


End file.
